"Speak him fair," he said, in a low tone, "there's rather a good string of 'em raound." Macdonald Dubh glanced about him.
His eye fell on his boy, and for the first time his face became anxious.
"Ranald," he said, angrily, "take yourself out of this.

It is no place for you whatever." The boy, a slight lad of seventeen, but tall and well-knit, and with his father's fierce, wild, dark face, hesitated.
"Go," said his father, giving him a slight cuff.
"Here, boy!" yelled LeNoir, catching him by the arm and holding the bottle to his mouth, "drink." The boy took a gulp, choked, and spat it out.

LeNoir and his men roared.

"Dat good whiskey," he cried, still holding the boy.

"You not lak dat, hey ?" "No," said the boy, "it is not good at all." "Try heem some more," said LeNoir, thrusting the bottle at him again.
"I will not," said Ranald, looking at LeNoir straight and fearless.
"Ho-ho! mon brave enfant! But you have not de good mannere.